


and the sun will rise

by jexlane



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1970s kibbutz AU, F/M, Feuilly is Polish because it actually works, Gen, I am not kidding, I think I turned David Ben-Gurion into General Lamarque, Jewish AU, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Mis AU, M/M, Oops, gratuitous use of the hebrew language, no regrets, what is a summary i can't write a summary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jexlane/pseuds/jexlane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 1973 on Kibbutz Sde Boker, Les Amis run a small kibbutz. Trying to get by isn't always easy, especially with Eponine's siblings left in Morocco with their unstable parents. Ben-Gurion's health is fading, and relationships are becoming strained. In a show of true Israeli perseverance, Les Amis come together to successfully strengthen their home and their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and he carries the reminders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: there are lots of terms in this that I wouldn’t really expect anyone to know unless you’ve had extensive schooling of the Jewish or Israeli kind, so I’ve endeavoured to bold all of them and define them after the fic. If there are any I missed, just let me know over at my tumblr (atardiser.tumblr.com) and I’m happy to help :)  
> I’ve tried to remain as faithful as possible to both the characterization of the people in this fic and to the history it’s set in. Everything I know comes either from schooling or from extensive research on the internet. I’ve taken some liberties with the immigration process, and of course with the acceptance of same-sex relationships. Other than that, I’ve tried as hard as possible to stick with history. This chapter is set on the 15th and 16th of November, 1973 -- yes, I’ve done that much research, because a plot point that actually happened comes up in a later chapter, and I like having the dates align with reality.  
> Fic title comes from the Epilogue of Les Mis; chapter title comes from ‘The Boxer’ by Simon and Garfunkel. I’ve tried to name the chapters after quotes from songs that Les Amis may have listened to in 1973.  
> Alright I’m done talking now. Enjoy!

The 13 of them are sitting in the common room of the main building, the sun just barely setting through the window behind them. Enjolras sits in the armchair directly under the window, and the sun reflecting on his golden hair seems to set him aflame, awash in a healthy fervor. Combeferre is seated near Enjolras, in a comfortable chair that seems to have a makeshift desk attached to it. There are papers spread out all over it, overlapping and jumbled – as the main economic advisor to the **kibbutz** , Combeferre is always accompanied by papers and pens. Next to him, Courfeyrac lounges on the floor, flipping through essays and occasionally scribbling a comment in the margins. Jehan lies perpendicular to Courfeyrac, legs resting on the arm of a sofa – he, as usual, is scribbling poetry in his worn notebook. On the sofa, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Bahorel sit debating the chances of **Hapoel Be’er Sheva** versus **Maccabi Haifa** while sharing a beer. Joly and Cosette, sitting opposite each other on a windowsill, seem to be discussing how to keep the **gan** children from getting sick, while Marius sits against the wall underneath them, scribbling on a notepad. Eponine and Musichetta are going over tomorrow’s menu, while Feuilly hums his agreement or disagreement with their choices.

Enjolras clears his throat and the hum of conversation slowly dies down as everyone turns to look at him. He has a presence which commands the room, no matter how hard they try to ensure that everyone is equal, and today is no exception – as he begins to talk, silence falls on the room, and everyone listens.

“I hope everyone had a productive day today. We’ve been producing consistent amounts of wine and grapes from the vineyard, which is fantastic, and everyone remains healthy – yes, even you, Joly – so that’s good. Combeferre, what are our funds looking like right now? Where can they go?”

Their weekly meetings on Thursday nights often focus on funds and their agricultural output – the only two things keeping the kibbutz alive.

Combeferre looks up. “Everything is looking good, Enjolras. We’re not struggling – we’re not rich, but we’ll be okay. As long as we keep up the output and everyone stays strong, and our clients don’t drop us, we should be set for the winter.”

Enjolras nods thoughtfully. “Even after the **war**? Have we suffered economically from it?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “We’ve recovered well enough. We may have lost a few--” here a few of the group bow their heads, still in pain from the loss of their friends in the horrific war. “…but we’ve bounced back, and our economics haven’t seen any drops since the war ended.

“Wonderful,” Enjolras says. “Has anyone got anything to mention before I tell you all your duties for tomorrow?”

Musichetta glances across the room at Grantaire, gesturing subtly to Eponine. Grantaire’s eyes light up in understanding, and he jumps from his place on the couch to whisper in Eponine’s ear. As the group watches, Eponine’s face contorts first in fear, and then in what seems to be quiet acceptance.

“No, Grantaire…I couldn’t. We can’t. It’s…there’s nothing we can do.” Eponine’s voice is full of sorrow, but it feels like an old sorrow – one the wearer has become accustomed to.

“If you won’t tell them, I will, Ep,” Grantaire says threateningly.

Eponine sighs. “You will even if I tell you not to, so what choice do I have?” She leans her head on her best friend’s shoulder, knowing that even if Grantaire is willing to tell their friends, his loyalties to her always come first. Sighing, she tries to convince herself of what she knows to be true: he’s doing it for the better, so that she’ll be happier.

Enjolras shakes his head. “What is going on, you two? Why so secretive?”

"Relax, Enjolras," Grantaire says. "Eponine has some stuff going on that she wasn't going to mention, but I think it's probably worth mentioning. If it's alright with you." The last sentence is tacked on almost as an afterthought, its sarcasm shining through. Enjolras just nods his acquiescence wearily, and Grantaire continues.

"Ep's family are from Morocco. She fled, a while ago, to come here and live a better life -- life there is hard enough, and her parents...weren't exactly the best. But she got a letter from home the other day, and basically...her brother and sister are in danger. Her parents have been jailed, her brother is twelve and her sister is eight...they have no one but each other. They're Jews in a hostile country. Nothing good can happen." Grantaire finished on that note, and put his arm around Eponine.

Courfeyrac looks up from where he lay on the floor. "Is there anything we can do? Get them out of there somehow?"

Grantaire snorts skeptically. "What can we, a group of simple kibbutzniks in the south of Israel, do to get someone out of Morocco? Thousands of kilometres away, and we can't even stay in touch with the top of the country, let alone outside of it. I just thought you all should know about it."

Jehan shakes his head. "Have you ever seen Enjolras meet a cause he can't win? He'll find a way, right, Enjolras?"

Enjolras glances at Jehan before turning back to Grantaire and Eponine. "I can't promise anything, Eponine. But we're a kibbutz. We work together to make sure everyone is happy. And if this will make you happy -- if this will make you feel safer and more comfortable here -- I will try my best. We all will." He looks around the room at his friends. Everyone is nodding and smiling at Eponine, murmuring words of comfort and encouragement. They all know what it's like to have family far away. Their parents were the first wave, the ones who built the country on their already scarred and bent backs. They are the first generation, the first children born as a sign of survival and perseverance -- and they won't ignore the plight of one of their own. How could they, when the **Shoah** is still a slowly-healing wound that opens a bit more every time their beloved country has to fight another war of survival? they have built this country, from the dirt and earth into something beautiful, and how can they not give other children the chance to see it grow too?

Eponine smiles at her friends gratefully, and if it's a little watery, if Grantaire holds her just a little bit closer, well...no one is going to say anything.

\--

The sun comes up, as it seems to do every day on the kibbutz, and Grantaire slowly rolls out of bed. He got lucky today -- his first duty is clearing out the classrooms for the children to have school, which means he doesn’t have to be up before sunrise like those who were assigned to milk the cows or prepare breakfast. His roommates, however, weren’t so lucky -- Eponine is, as always, already busy helping Musichetta in the kitchen, and Courfeyrac has decided to get up to help Jehan with the early-morning grape harvest. Grantaire isn’t even going to start thinking about that one, because that friendship is a whole different can of worms that Grantaire does not want to deal with yet.

The kibbutz is already humming by the time he enters the dining room, people milling about and discussing the day’s work. Feuilly pounces on Grantaire as soon as he walks through the door, talking a mile a minute about his plans for building sturdier trellises for their vines to grow on. The Polish immigrant, just nearing his 29th birthday, is the best man on the kibbutz for carpentry, and they often enlist him to build new structures. Grantaire gets roped into these things because he studied art, and to his fellow kibbutzniks, that seems to mean he knows how to be an architect. He doesn’t question it -- it’s a job, and it gives him something to do. Makes him feel useful where he otherwise wouldn’t.

With Feuilly in tow, he finds himself a table and sits down on a bench next to Valjean. The man is getting older, and was one of the original founders of the kibbutz, but it feels like he hasn’t lost a day of vitality since -- he still gets up with them and toils in the fields like one half his age. Valjean is one of the few kibbutzniks who survived the Shoah, and he has the scars to prove it -- perhaps it’s that proof, the numbers on his arm and the ever-present haunted look in his eyes -- that makes all the younger kibbutzniks respect him so completely. There’s no way not to love Jean Valjean, with his absolute faith in the kibbutz and in their ability to bring their country to a better day, and his 25-year-old adopted daughter, Cosette, who brings life to the kibbutz on even the rainiest days. Their family is one of the most respected on the kibbutz.

“ **Mar** Valjean, how are you this morning?” Grantaire asks.

The older man smiles. “I’m doing well, young master. The cows are healthy, the sun has risen on another beautiful day, and I am in the promised land. What more could I ask for?”

Grantaire shares a smile with Cosette at her father’s words. Valjean, ever the optimist, doesn’t always agree with Grantaire and his innate cynicism, but on sunny days like these, it’s impossible for that hope not to be infectious.

“It was a very brave thing you did yesterday, Grantaire,” Valjean says suddenly. His voice has become softer, and more serious -- Grantaire leans closer to hear him speak. “Not everyone would have spoken up when their friend asked them not to. But you made the right decision. Perhaps this turn of events in Eponine’s family will give our fearless leader somewhere to channel his anger and passion.”

Grantaire’s surprise is evident in his tone of voice. “You’ve seen it too? The fury he hides behind the calm exterior?”

Valjean nods calmly. “Enjolras has all the makings of a true leader, but the war shook him to the core. No one was expecting it, least of all him -- I believe he finally was hoping for a safe future, after our success in the **Six-Day War**. But this one...it scared him, more than he cares to admit, and though the others don’t see it, I knew you would. He needs something to fight for, that one, or he will go stir-crazy. Eponine’s little siblings might be just the ‘cause’ he is looking for. After all, how could he not want to bring more people to this land of milk and honey, even if it is constantly in danger?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t know, Mar Valjean. Seems to me that would be a good enough reason to send them away, to America, or somewhere safer.”

Valjean leans back. “Perhaps. But I think Enjolras sees more in the future of this country than he sees in its present. He believes in the power of people, Grantaire, and I don’t doubt his ability to stir our masses with his words. He will mobilise us to fight for the Thenardiers’ safe passage, and it may yet turn out to be a great **simcha** for our little family.”

Grantaire sighs. “I hope you’re right. Eponine has been worrying herself sick over them for weeks now -- I knew if I didn’t say something, she would do something silly.”

“You two have known each other for a long right now, right?” Cosette breaks in.

Grantaire nods. “I met Eponine when I first **made aliyah**. We met in Tel Aviv, and she looked so lost that I had to help her -- I wasn’t much better off, but at least I knew the language. We got lucky - we could have been sent anywhere, but I had heard of **Sde Boker** and I knew this was where I wanted to go. I took Ep along because she didn’t have anyone, or anything.” He sighs, memories of days gone by flashing like embers in his eyes. For a moment, Cosette can see the younger Grantaire, one who was perhaps not as cynical, less scarred by wars and pain. But he shakes his head, and that spark disappears as he stands. “I should get to work. Mar Valjean, Cosette, Feuilly.” He nods to each of them in turn and strides off across the dining hall.

Valjean turns to his daughter. “Has he fought, **Costi**? Why is he so cynical?”

“Yes, **Aba** ,” Cosette responds. “He fought in the last war, and though it was victorious, Eponine has told me he was never the same.” She shrugs helplessly. “He argues with Enjolras over everything, from running the kibbutz to thoughts of peace with our neighbours. He claims not to believe in anything, not even the idea of a peaceful existence, but he stays with us and has no thought of leaving.”

Feuilly nods. “Grantaire’s life has been a struggle, Mar Valjean, a struggle with sadness. When he came to the kibbutz, he found friends, but the cynic in him lies just underneath the skin, and war brings out the worst in people. I fear he hasn’t recovered from losing Yochi and Sam...he was close to them.”

“He is close to everyone,” Valjean notes. “You both say he is a cynic, but I see something else...I see someone who is simply afraid of hope. But you know him better. Come! It’s getting late in the morning, and we have work to do!”

\--

Grantaire meets up with Eponine after the afternoon round of work is finished, outside the barn on the kibbutz. It’s become their regular meeting place, every day, just to catch up. Since they first met, they’ve become closer than they ever expected -- there’s something easy about bonding with someone who has seen as much horror and anguish as you have. Grantaire and Eponine see that in each other, the pessimism and world-weariness that comes with too much responsibility at too young an age.

They settle on the ground in silence, backs against the sturdy wood of the barn.

“Sorry I told them about Gav and ‘Zelma, Ep,” Grantaire says eventually. He sounds truly sorry, not as if he’s saying it out of any duty, and Eponine decides to believe him.

“It’s fine, R. I knew it would come out at some point -- it’s a kibbutz we’re living on, after all. Everyone knows everything about everyone.” She tips her head onto her best friend’s shoulder in an echo of the previous night. “I just....didn’t want their pity, you know? The minute you said it, I could hear the ‘awws’ and gasps of pain and sorrow, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to be considered less because I have to deal with this.”

And Grantaire would whisper things, murmur platitudes and reassurances like they’ll heal the worries Eponine hides, but he knows they’re a lost cause. He knows all too well that any comfort will be ignored, because Eponine’s hurting, hurting more than she has in the past. He knows that there’s a gaping hole in her heart that nothing can fill, not even the promise of her future or the love of her friends. So he just sits, and lets her lean her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything when the tears begin to soak through his shirt, doesn’t speak a word as her back heaves with sobs under his soothing hand. He just sits, because he understands the pain she’s in, always has. There’s a connection between them that runs deeper than words, something that none of the other kibbutzniks understand.

When Combeferre comes to find them, a good twenty minutes later, Eponine's sobs have subsided, and the two of them are talking softly about Morocco, and Eponine's siblings' situation. Combeferre rounds the corner to the back of the barn and looks a bit awkward -- he, of course, can tell that Ep's been crying. Combeferre has a sixth sense when it comes to emotions, which makes him the best second-in-command to Enjolras that any in the kibbutz could dream of. When Enjolras forgets that his friends are human, 'Ferre is always around to remind him with a soft nudge or a few gentle words.

"Hi, Grantaire, Eponine. Enjolras sent me to find you two -- he's having a meeting in the common room and wanted all of us to be there," Combeferre explains.

Grantaire nods. "We'll follow you in half a minute. Thanks for letting us know."

Combeferre accepts the thanks wordlessly and starts to walk back towards the main house. Before he rounds the corner out of their sight, he turns back, looking at Eponine.

"For what it's worth, Ep...I'm sorry. I can't imagine how hard this has been and continues to be. We'll do everything in our power to rescue them, I promise you." A slight blush spreading across his cheeks, Combeferre nods his goodbye once more and walks off.

Grantaire sighs. "Eponiiine...." His tone of voice is reminiscent of that of a teasing third grade student. "Is there something going on that you haven't told me yet?"

Eponine looks at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, R?"

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You didn't notice?" He jerks his head in the direction Combeferre walked off in. "He's smitten!"

Eponine laughs, a short, barking laugh, full of skepticism. "Please. He's always in touch with everyone's emotions, it's really not just me. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

Grantaire stands up and grabs Eponine’s hand to pull her up with him. “Why? He’s a nice guy, and you need to stop pining over Pontmercy and live a little, **habibti**! And he likes you! What is there not to love?” He grins at her.

Eponine brushes the dust off her pants. “Doesn’t matter, Grantaire. He doesn’t like me, not like that, and there isn’t enough time. Not with winter coming and our crops needing tending and my brother and sister in danger. And after all, if you’re so smart with love and romance, why don’t you tell me how your little crush on Enjolras is going, huh?” She raises an eyebrow at her friend.

Grantaire huffs. “We’re not discussing that, Eponine. It’s not happening. It’s different, anyway. Enjolras hates me. Combeferre loves you. And nothing is ever going to happen between Enjolras and me.”

Eponine just smiles serenely, bumping her shoulder against his as they walk back the main house, bickering lightly all the way.

\--

“We have a few things to discuss tonight, and several of them are of a slightly worrying nature, so I’d appreciate it if you all helped me out and paid attention this meeting. I’ll try not to talk for too long, especially because **Shabbat** is approaching, but do, you know, try to keep the conversation to a minimum,” Enjolras says, standing in the centre of the room. The members of the kibbutz are gathered around him in a circle, lounging on chairs, sofas, or the ground, or finding perches on tables or windowsills. Enjolras’s presence is commanding, drawing eyes to him even through the chatter of conversation. Grantaire suddenly wishes for a pencil and paper -- there’s something about the fire in Enjolras’s eyes tonight that makes the artist in him excited. He hasn’t sat down and done a proper drawing in months, not since before the war and its consequences. Shaking his head to rid himself from those thoughts and the path they lead down, he takes a sip from his bottle of wine and focuses on Enjolras.

“First of all,” the leader continues, “ **Chanukah** is coming up in about three weeks. We need to decide what we’re going to do -- obviously, we’ll have some sort of celebration, but arrangements will have to be made.” He turns to Musichetta. “‘Chetta, I’ll leave you to the menu for that, I know I put it in capable hands.” The rest of the room smirks -- it’s no secret Musichetta can win anyone over with a subtle wink and a plate of her cooking, and Enjolras is no exception. Enjolras notices the grins and rolls his eyes, but continues talking. “There are two other slightly more sombre things we need to discuss today. The first...” He closes his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath. “ **Mar Ben-Gurion** ’s health is fading. He’s still lucid, responds to his name and everything...but it’s no secret that he’s getting older. Even Paula knows it. I wanted to ensure that we have the funds to care for him in case his health gets worse. Combeferre?”

Combeferre looks up. “I don’t know, Enjolras. Normally I would say yes, but winter’s coming, and we have to take care of our crops. We would probably be okay if it was something minor, but life-threatening illnesses, we’re not equipped for, right, Joly?”

Joly, the head doctor of the kibbutz, nods. “We just wouldn’t be prepared, Enjolras. We’d have to send him elsewhere.”

Enjolras nods shortly, accepting the truth. “The other thing I wanted to mention was about Eponine’s siblings.” He turns to Eponine, speaking directly to her. “Ep, I really want to do something about this. I’ve looked into it, and I think the only way to do anything would be to go into Morocco and get them. That would be...challenging, and would require more funds that I don’t know if we have.” Again, he turns to Combeferre, but doesn’t pause to let the other speak. “I was planning to talk to ‘Ferre later in private about that, but I wanted to know if there is anyone in the kibbutz who is completely against the idea of getting Ep’s siblings out of Morocco. We have to decide on this as a group, a family, so do speak up if you disagree with it.”

Silence falls on the room. Several people look hesitant at the idea of pulling something like that off.

“How do you propose to get into Morocco, get ahold of two kids who could be on the streets -- sorry, Ep -- and get them out and into Israel when you don’t even have legal authority over them?” Grantaire finally says.

Enjolras nods shortly. “You’re right, Grantaire, those are issues we’ll have to answer, but don’t you think it’s more important to take this risk? We could save their lives!”

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m just pointing out the problems with this plan. You seem to believe that it’ll be easy as pie, just a hop in and out of the country. It’s not going to be that simple, **sabra**. I’ve done the immigration thing, and it’s tough. They’ll have to be admitted as immigrants to the country unless you can prove that one of you is related to them. And what if the parents refuse to let them go? You need to think this through, Apollo, and do it with care. You may believe in the benevolence of human beings, but it’s the governments, not the civilians, you have to look out for right now.” He ends his speech with a sip from the bottle of wine in his hand.

Enjolras bristles at the slights to his ideology and plan, but says nothing to disagree. “Questions that have to be answered, Grantaire. Just questions.” He turned to Eponine. “Ep, this is what you want, isn’t it?”

Eponine buries her face in her hands. “You can’t ask me a question like that, Enjolras. Of course I want my siblings near me, how could I not?” She lifts her head, eyes shining. “But I don’t want -- I can’t have -- any of you risking your lives for me. We’ve lost enough from this kibbutz, this community we’ve raised from the ground on our hard work, and I don’t want to lose any more.”

Enjolras leans back against a wall. His eyes look more sorrowful and weary than they have any right to, and Grantaire is reminded suddenly that Enjolras is young, younger than many of them. Their leader looks vulnerable for a moment, lost in a sea of swirling ideas and plans that are on either side of the extremes -- they could end in incredible joy, or unending sorrow. But after a moment, the emotion is gone, and in its place is a steely determination that has made much older men cower in fear.

“We will rescue them, Eponine. I’m telling you now, there is no way I’m letting family of family pass by quietly in danger. I will do everything in my power to reunite your family, and anyone who wishes to join me --” he glances around the room -- “is welcome to.” He nods. “Have a good **kabbalat Shabbat** , everyone. I’ll see you all later.” Gesturing to Combeferre to follow him, Enjolras strides powerfully out of the room, leaving an aura of power and determination in his wake. The room is silent for a few moments, before conversation erupts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms:  
> kibbutz: a “collective community in Israel;” generally based on agriculture. The basic premise is that everyone is equal and does the same work in order to keep their community alive. Someone on a kibbutz can be called a kibbutznik. For further reading/understanding, try wikipedia.   
> Hapoel Be’er Sheva, Maccabi Haifa: soccer/association football teams in Israel  
> gan: basically, a Jewish preschool  
> war: obviously everyone knows what war is, but specifically when Enjolras mentions it, I’m referring to the Yom Kippur War, fought between October 6-25, 1973. There was a surprise attack against Israel, lots of fighting and death happened, and again, I suggest wikipedia for further information.  
> Shoah: the Jewish/Hebrew name for the Holocaust (specifically for the genocide itself, and not referring to the war).   
> mar: one way to say ‘Mr.’ in Hebrew. I’m using it as a term of respect.  
> Six-Day War: another war Israel fought, in 1967. Literally lasted six days before Israel won, which is why Valjean talks about complacency and resting on laurels.  
> simcha: Hebrew word for joy. I used it as a noun -- “a great simcha” = “a great joy[ous event]”  
> made aliyah/to make aliyah: to move to Israel. Literally, the phrase means ‘to go up,’ which is not relevant, but is interesting.   
> Sde Boker: the name of the kibbutz they live on. It actually exists, and it is actually where David Ben-Gurion retired. I’ve read that the name means ‘Cowboy’s Field,’ but I’ve done a little play on words because boker can also mean morning, so I named the fic ‘and the sun will rise.’ Heh. But anyway, further reading on Sde Boker can be found on the interwebs.  
> Costi: in Hebrew, adding ‘ti’ onto the end of a word often, if not always, makes it possessive. When Valjean says ‘Costi,’ he’s taking the first half of Cosette’s name and make it possessive as a term of endearment.  
> Aba: father in Hebrew  
> habibti: actually Arabic, and not Hebrew. Another term of endearment, one that I love and therefore must use.   
> Shabbat: the Jewish holy day. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. More observant Jews don’t do any work on Shabbat - that means no driving, electricity, writing, etc, for some people. People go to synagogue on Saturdays.  
> Chanukah: the festival of light! The holiday you’ve probably heard of -- eight days, lots of presents, those candelabra type things? Yeah that’s Chanukah. Also spelled Hanukah, Hanukkah, Chanukkah, etc.   
> Mar Ben-Gurion: David Ben-Gurion, first Prime Minister of Israel. Read up on him on his wikipedia page, but what you should know: he legitimately retired to Kibbutz Sde Boker, and died on December 1, 1973. SPOILER ALERT, YO. His wife’s name is Paula.   
> sabra: a native-born Israeli. A tsabar, as it’s said in Hebrew, is a cactus that’s all prickly on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside. These are often compared to Israelis. Make of that what you will. When Grantaire calls Enjolras a sabra, he’s differentiating between himself (an immigrant) and Enjolras (a native).   
> Kabbalat Shabbat: the prayer service that welcomes Shabbat, held on Friday nights.
> 
> Dudes if you put up with me/this to make it here, you’re my faves ever. Thanks for reading! ♥


	2. never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which conversations are overheard, plans are furthered, and the kibbutz is quieted for a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot woot second chapter! Man I wish this hadn't taken me so long to write but between junior year and the Monster Cold of Doom I got, this was just a labour of love. I’m also argh-blargh about the fact that this is shorter than last chapter, but there’s a lot of emotional stuff in it and it felt right to end it where I did. So.  
> Quick TW for talk of serious illness and possible death, because that happens in this chapter.  
> ALSO. I would like to say this: there are events in this chapter which are entirely true, and I wish to only my deepest respect to David Ben-Gurion. He was an amazing leader, and I hope I don’t offend anyone by using him in this fic. Here’s to you, sir.  
> Terms are bolded and defined at the bottom; title comes from Elton John’s ‘Candle in the Wind’; I love you all.

Grantaire can hear raised voices from down the hall. Shabbat ended around an hour ago, and the aura of peace that accompanies the day of rest has dissipated entirely. Almost as soon as Shabbat had ended, Enjolras had called Combeferre and Eponine into a classroom to talk to the two of them privately. Grantaire hadn’t meant to interfere, but he had been walking with Cosette through the kibbutz’s school, inspecting the classrooms -- a box of tacks had rolled away from one of the teachers, and they didn’t want any kids getting hurt -- when he had heard his name coming from a classroom. He had sent Cosette off to continue her search for tacks, and had slipped silently into one of the classrooms nearby.

“How can you still go to him for comfort, Ep? The two of you are so different -- in you, everyone can still see the perseverance and belief that comes with being a kibbutznik, everyone can see that you’re not willing to give up. Grantaire? He doesn’t believe in anything, does he? He does his work, sure, but does he truly believe at all that any good will come of it? He barely believes we can get Gavroche and Azelma here! I don’t understand him, or you...he’s so frustrating!” Enjolras is saying. Grantaire can hear Combeferre’s low voice trying to placate Enjolras, but it’s overridden by Eponine.

“How can I still go to him, Enjolras? He’s my best friend! He has been since I first made aliyah, and I don’t know if I could live without him at this point! He’s a cynic and sometimes even a pessimist, yes, but he isn’t a sadist! There are still things he believes in, though I don’t know why...” Grantaire can hear Eponine rolling her eyes to herself -- her opinions about his trust in Enjolras could fill a novel. She doesn’t understand how Grantaire can so vehemently oppose Enjolras’s undying belief in the good of humans when Grantaire’s own ideology differs so greatly. To be honest, Grantaire can’t quite explain it himself. “But he does, Enjolras, somewhere deep down, in some place in his heart that hasn’t been scarred by abuse and heartbreak and war and everything else he’s gone through, there’s a ridiculous spark of hope! And he believes in us, in this group of rag-tag immigrants and sabras who somehow have come together -- he may not show it, he may not even know it exists, but he believes in us.” Eponine’s voice is pleading and quieter now. “And if you keep shooting him down and refusing to acknowledge that his ideas have merit, he’s never going to show that, and it’ll disappear entirely.”

There is a moment of absolute silence, before it’s broken by Combeferre, who starts talking about the economic risks of rescuing Gav and Azelma. Grantaire stands from where he was sitting on the floor, grabbing his bottle of beer, and walks out the door, down the hallway, away from that trio, away from the poisonous words he overheard. The crushing sense of failure that accompanied what he listened to follows him like a cloud as he walks.

\--

Eponine finds Grantaire the next day exactly where she thought she would find him -- in the sheep’s pasture, early enough in the morning that the sun hasn’t even risen yet. He’s sitting inside the enclosed pasture, one hand holding a bottle of something alcoholic while the other pets an old sheepdog that lies at his side. He’s staring out at the sheep, a war between peaceful contemplation and pure rage roiling in his eyes. She doesn’t enter the pasture yet -- she simply leans against the outside of the fence and rests one hand on her friend’s shoulder. To his credit, he doesn’t startle, just leans back against the fence in acknowledgement. After a few moments, he begins to speak. At first, his voice is cracked and hoarse.

“It’s pretty crazy how sheep just follow after their shepherd, isn’t it?” Grantaire says emotionlessly. “No matter what, they believe he’s leading them somewhere good. Somewhere safe.”

Eponine’s hand flexes minutely on his shoulder. Through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt, she can feel how cold he is.

“He really believes that, doesn’t he?” Grantaire continues, again without any tone or emotion. “He doesn’t think I have any faith. In anything.”

Eponine’s hand disappears from his shoulder as she hops the fence quickly, settling in next to him -- not quite touching him, but close enough.

“I’m not wrong, am I, habibti?”

Eponine sighs, only just refraining from rolling her eyes. “Of course you are, ‘Taire. He’s too selfless to see that the only faith you have is in him, and too selfish to admit that you could have faith in anything else. Honestly, the two of you are so emotionally inept.” She pauses. “How much did you hear, last night?”

“Enough,” Grantaire replies.

“He was speaking out of passion, Grantaire. You know Enjolras. Once he finds a cause to fight for, he’ll fight for it to the end. He’s latched onto this as if it’s a lifeline, and he can’t let go now. He wants to bring them back for a Chanukah miracle.” Eponine laughs at that, and Grantaire chuckles.

“He believes he can do anything, doesn’t he? He thinks he’s invincible,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “It’s not good for him. Or us. Or me. Makes us all believe in him.” He takes a drink of whatever is in his bottle. “That’s never good for anyone.”   
Eponine does roll her eyes this time. “You’re talking nonsense, **meshugah**. If you didn’t believe in Enjolras, who would there be for you to argue with? Who would you tease, whose pigtails would you pull?” They share a laugh at that. “You two are perfect complements of each other, R. One can’t exist without the other.” If only both of them could see that, Eponine adds silently.

Grantaire snorts. “I don’t know, Eponine.” They sit in silence for a moment, before he turns to face her. “You know I do believe we can make this work, right? I don’t want you thinking I don’t want Gav and Azelma here, I can’t have you thinking I don’t care for them or want them or want what’s best for you, because I do, Ep, all I want is for us to be happy, all of us, here on this kibbutz...I...” He stops, lost for words, and buries his face in his hands. Eponine moves quickly, swinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and leaning against him.

“Of course I don’t think that, Grantaire. Come on, I’ve known you forever. I know you love, I know you feel, and I don’t know how the others don’t see it -- how Enjolras doesn’t see it. But you’re right. We can’t be hotheaded about this, this crazy...mission we’re thinking about. We need you there to stop us, to point out everything that’s wrong with our plan. Enjolras needs you, ‘Taire, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Grantaire shakes his head, and Eponine can see the doubt in his eyes. “Thanks, Ep. As long as you don’t think I’m against the idea, I’m happy.”

\--

Grantaire is hammering a trellis together in one of Feuilly’s woodshops when Marius finds him. The day has progressed slowly, and Enjolras’s words from the night before are still running on a loop around his head. He’s got half a bottle of beer by his side -- Feuilly had looked at it disdainfully, but thankfully hadn’t said anything -- and he’s completely wrapped up in his thoughts, so he doesn’t hear Marius come in.

“ **Ehm**....Grantaire?” the boy says. It’s loud in the silence, and Grantaire jumps, startled. He turns around to find Marius standing there, looking sheepish.

“Hey, Pontmercy,” Grantaire says, wiping his face with a towel. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Marius is one of the newer members of the kibbutz, having moved there just two years earlier. His grandfather had been an important government official, who wanted Marius to follow in his footsteps, but the political life hadn’t been for Marius. He had joined the kibbutz and had immediately been adopted into their midst. After a year of pining after Cosette, he had finally worked up the courage to ask her out, and the two were now confident in their adorableness. Marius had seemed a bit shallow at first, but had quickly bonded with members of the kibbutz, especially Courfeyrac and Grantaire, and was now an indispensable part of all of their lives.

“I, um...I want to do something special for Cosette, and I was wondering if, um, if you could help me?” Marius asks tentatively.

“Sure, what do you need? Hammering? Wine? Sarcasm?” Grantaire answers jokingly.

Marius laughs, but shakes his head. “No, actually...I was wondering...if you could paint something for her?”

The smile slides off Grantaire’s face as quickly as it appeared there. He hasn’t painted anything serious since the war, since life has gotten a bit more serious around the kibbutz.

“What...exactly....would you want me to paint?” Grantaire responds hesitantly.

Marius stands up a little straighter, and Grantaire just barely resists reminding him that his response was not an agreement.

“There’s a part of the kibbutz that she absolutely loves, one view in particular that looks out over the **Negev** , that she always says reminds her of the hopefulness of the kibbutz. She loves it at sundown, says that’s when it’s the most beautiful. I’ve asked her why she doesn’t just take a picture of it for memory, because it’s not a view she can see from her window or anything, but she said it’s not something that can be captured in a camera. But I remember, your paintings are even better that that, they’re...they’re **mamash** otherwordly, Grantaire. They breathe, they’re alive. And it’s almost our anniversary and I wanted to give her something she’ll love forever, even if we break up...” Grantaire rolls his eyes. Marius shrugs, grinning, and continues. “I’m getting her something else, of course, but I just thought this would be...the most meaningful. The kibbutz is our lives, it’s everyone’s lives, and it often defines us more than anything else does.” Marius trails off, but the solemnity and depth of his speech make Grantaire think twice about his inital hesitation. It might be good to get back into painting, a voice inside him says. It’ll give him something to do when he needs to fidget.

Finally, he nods at Marius. “Tell me what this view is, and I’ll see what I can do. I’m assuming you want this to be a secret from Cosette?”

Marius grins. “Yes, definitely. Thank you so much, Grantaire, I really can’t explain how much this means to me.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Thank me when it’s done, Pontmercy. For now, just tell me where to go, and we’ll leave it at that.”

Marius nods, shakes Grantaire’s hand, and turns to leave. Grantaire has already turned back to his trellis, so he doesn’t see the fond smile splitting Marius’s face as he glances back at his fellow kibbutznik.

\--

“They’re ridiculous! I just...I don’t even understand the two of them! How can two people be so intelligent and yet so stupid?”

“I don’t know, darling,” Musichetta strokes Eponine’s head softly. “Sometimes two people are going in parallel lines their whole lives, and they just never cross. Maybe the two of them are destined to do that.”

Eponine groans, scrubbing her face with her hands. “I don’t know, ‘Chetta. They’re **beshert** for each other. They’re constantly arguing, but the only thing that keeps Enjolras sane is Grantaire, and the only thing that Grantaire believes in Enjolras and the kibbutz. I just don’t understand it! Grantaire would do anything for Enjolras, really, he just refuses to admit it. And Enjolras! That boy! Every time he says something hurtful to Grantaire he just doesn’t understand what it does! Grantaire believes it, ‘Chetta, he believes the things Enjolras says about him. He felt that he had to reassure me today that he did think the best thing to do was to get Gavroche and Azelma here, because he thought maybe he wasn’t being clear about that. And it’s because Enjolras said what he said, about Grantaire not believing! It’s ridiculous, the way they trade barbs and constantly trip each other...I just don’t understand!”

Musichetta nods silently, contemplating Eponine’s outburst for a moment. ‘Chetta is a bit older than Eponine, but she looks as young as ever. Her parents were immigrants from Italy, and Musichetta had inherited her mother’s olive skin and her father’s sparkling green eyes. Though she’s not that much older than the young workers on the kibbutz, she’s the one they all go to for motherly advice. She runs the kitchen in the kibbutz, and everyone obeys her orders. Musichetta may be a sweetheart when she’s in a good mood, but if anyone threatens her or her friends, she’s downright terrifying.

“The thing is, Eponine...” Musichetta begins. “The two of them are polar opposites. They’re more alike than they think, I know, but they are very different. Not to mention Enjolras doesn’t believe he has time for anything remotely resembling a relationship. Maybe...give them time, love. Let Enjolras focus on bringing your siblings safely from Morocco. Let Grantaire focus on the kibbutz. Maybe soon they will stop orbiting each other and cross paths.”

Eponine sighs. Of course Musichetta is right. The other woman pats Eponine’s back comfortingly for a moment before turning to the calendar.

“Right, we have one month left before Chanukah. How long do you think we have until the boys start demanding **latkes**?”

\--

They reconvene, not for any particular purpose, that Sunday night in the main social room. This time, it’s Grantaire sitting quietly on the windowsill, alternately staring into the distance, over the desert, and sketching softly on a piece of notebook paper. Enjolras stares at him for what is probably more than the acceptable time, but Grantaire doesn’t notice. As always, Eponine muses, they’re completely missing each other.

The rest of the group are lounging, talking, laughing. It’s as relaxed as they get, and it’s calm for once. That is, until Courfeyrac sprints into the room, a worried expression on his face.

“Enjolras! Enjolras, you need come, now. It’s Mar Ben-Gurion, Joly’s with him, it’s not good and we need to get him to a hospital, Enjolras, NOW!”

The rest of the room has fallen quiet, as if everyone has taken in a collective breath. Enjolras has jumped from his seat, but is standing motionless where he rose, as if he doesn’t understand the words Courfeyrac is saying.

“Enjolras, come on! He’s really ill, Joly doesn’t know what to do, it’s completely above what we have here...” Courfeyrac glances around the room in panic, eyes searching for someone to get Enjolras moving. Nobody has noticed Grantaire rise from his window seat and walk over to Enjolras. He walks around Enjolras so that the two are eye-to-eye.

“Enjolras. Come on. We need our leader right now. Snap out of whatever this is and go help Courf and Joly. Now, or I’ll have to slap you.”

Grantaire’s words seem to work magic. Enjolras shakes himself, and rushes to Courfeyrac’s side. Courfeyrac looks shaken, but manages to pull together to inform Enjolras of the details.

“Joly called it a cerebral hemorrhage, I don’t know what it means but it’s serious and we need medical care...” Courfeyrac explains as he pulls Enjolras towards the door and out of the room after him. No one notices Enjolras’s hands shaking as he walks -- he is the picture of calm, his face stoic and listening to Courfeyrac, but his hands are shaking, and his knuckles are white.

Once they’ve left the room, the entire group breathes.

“What are we going to do?” Feuilly asks. “It’s David Ben-Gurion, guys. What are we going to do?”

Bahorel walks over to his friend and rests a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this, we will. Just like we do everything else. It’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.” His words feel fake to everyone in the room, but no one dares disagree.

It’s at least half an hour before Enjolras re-enters the room, and he looks like he’s aged twenty years. “They’ve taken him to the medical centre in **Tel HaShomer**. They’re going to take care of him.”

Cosette springs up and takes Enjolras’s hand, leading him to chair. The rest of the room stays quiet, not knowing what to say. Enjolras scrubs his face with his hands, but doesn’t say a word.

\--

The kibbutz is quiet the next day. They had received word that the former prime minister was in stable condition, but the atmosphere around the kibbutz still feels stiflingly sad. Everyone goes around their regular duties, but the chatter is lessened. Nobody feels much like talking.

Sunset finds Grantaire is sitting just outside the kibbutz, alone with nothing but the sand for company. The spot he’s sitting in is in the line of sight of the view Marius said Cosette loves so much, and he’s trying to see what he can do for this painting. He’s trying as hard as possible not to dwell on anything that’s happened this weekend, but with nothing but the sand for company, it’s not easy.

He’s drawing random figures in the sand when he hears someone behind him. To his surprise, it’s Enjolras.

“Isn’t this the best place to sit and think?” Enjolras asks. His voice has only the slightest tinge of emotion to it, and his eyes look tired. Grantaire pats the sand next to him, and Enjolras sits.

“I’ve never actually spent that much time here before today,” Grantaire admits. “But it is beautiful.”

Enjolras stares into the distance. “Yeah. It is.”

“How are you doing, sabra?” Grantaire asks, looking at Enjolras. Up close, he looks even worse, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He probably hasn’t.

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a while. When he does, he is looking at the sand below him, not at Grantaire. “I’ve...been better.”

If Grantaire is honest, he’s shocked by that much of an admission of weakness. Enjolras prides himself in being able to keep a steady head whenever it’s necessary, and he and Grantaire have never been close. Sure, they’re friends, but the kind that reveal their weaknesses to each other? Not really.

“Too much on your plate?” Grantaire asks lightly.

Enjolras shakes his head, sending blonde curls flying. “No, no, it’s not that...well, maybe it is, but I don’t want to give any of it up. It’s just...the kibbutz has to say functioning, even without Ben-Gurion, and I want to get Eponine’s siblings here, in time for Chanukah because she would be so happy, but now with this...he’s in stable condition but who knows. There are all kinds of things I’d have to deal with if something were to happen, and I don’t want to think about it but I have to. It’s my job, and my job is a **balagan**. But I wouldn’t want any of it gone...I just needed the time to think.”

For second time in as many days, Grantaire is struck by the urge to draw Enjolras. The leader is staring out into the distance, lit by the setting sun, and in his eyes is a fire that Grantaire can only think of as his description of Israel -- sadness tinged with everlasting optimism. Impulsively, he grabs his pencil and paper and sketches a few rough lines, just enough that he’ll remember the image for later. Enjolras doesn’t notice, and Grantaire puts his materials down before replying.

“I’m not always one for optimism, Enjolras, but you’ll be fine. You always get done what needs to be done, and this time will be no different. Just...take some time to relax every so often, yeah?” Grantaire stands, brushing the sand off his pants. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Make them good.” He claps Enjolras on the shoulder, leaving his hand there for just a moment as he makes sure none of his art materials will fly away in the evening breeze. For a moment, Enjolras looks like he’s going to protest Grantaire leaving, but Grantaire is looking into the distance and misses that expression. Enjolras turns back to the view, and nods.

“Thanks, Grantaire. For listening.”

Grantaire grins, a smile devoid of much joy. “Anything for you, Enjolras.” He sighs, and makes his way back to the kibbutz. At the entrance, he turns, and looks at Enjolras. The other man is still sitting there, back hunched, chin resting on his knees, staring off into the unknown, and Grantaire wonders briefly what it’s like to live in that head. Shaking off the melancholy feeling that accompanies that thought, he wanders into the kibbutz and digs up his paintbrushes from where they’ve fallen behind his bed. A desert begins to take shape on his page, and the sun sets over a lone figure, staring into the black night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME TERMS and a few more notes:  
> \- yes, DBG’s illness is 100% true. He really did suffer a cerebral hemorrhage on November 18, 1973, and was taken to Tel HaShomer. Again, I want to say that I mean only the greatest and endless respect to him.  
> Words I used that are not English:  
> \- meshugah: basically, crazy or foolish. As in, what are you doing, you meshugah, you crazy person?  
> \- ehm: okay maybe I’m ridiculous for bolding this but this is such an Israeli thing, it’s like ‘um’ in English but it’s like ‘eeeeehhhhhhmmmmm’ and it can be all stretched out and I dunno, it was fun to use  
> \- Negev: the “desert and semidesert region of southern Israel” (thanks, Wikipedia!). It’s the region and desert that Sde Boker is in.  
> \- mamash: someone stop me from using all this gratuitous Hebrew slang, guys. Mamash is an emphasizer -- it means really, truly, very, etc. But it’s also kind of hard to describe...I guess in this case I used it as ‘completely/really otherwordly.’   
> \- beshert: This is actually Yiddish! A person’s beshert is their soulmate, a predestined love.   
> \- latkes: om nom nom nom. Potato pancakes, traditional for Chanukah. They’re DELICIOUS.  
> \- Tel HaShomer: a real place in Israel, where Ben-Gurion was taken when he suffered the hemorrhage  
> \- balagan: a mess, craziness.  
> ALSO, here is a fantastic picture taken by someone who is not me. This is how I picture where E and R were sitting in their last conversation. http://usrbinali.deviantart.com/art/Sunrise-in-the-Negev-desert-348594844
> 
> Again, thank you for reading and if you have comments/questions/quibbles/concerns, hit me up at atardiser.tumblr.com! Thanks for reading!


End file.
